


First Aid

by Sloth_Race



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Aid, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Major Character Injury, Pre-Relationship, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloth_Race/pseuds/Sloth_Race
Summary: When the Inquisitor is badly injured during the skirmish at the Shrine of Dumat, Cullen falls upon his Templar training to provide first aid. It proves to be an awkward and enlightening experience for them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Cullen would have some pretty solid first aid skills, given that he's been around battles and wounded soldiers rather often in his career. 
> 
> Warning: I should note that there's a description of the Inquisitor getting stitches. It's reasonably graphic, so I wanted to include a head-ups. (Apologies to medical folks, who surely can pinpoint the inevitable inaccuracies.)

The Inquisitor doesn’t see the blade that catches her in the side. She doesn’t see it, and there’s a small blessing in that, because the broadsword slices through her robe like paper, hewing her ribs in a long, bloody arc. It’s a gruesome sight.

She doesn’t see the damage, but she _feels_ it. She cries out at the startling burst of pain, but the noise is stifled when her opponent, a lyrium-addled red templar, levels a vicious kick to her face. The hard boot catches her jawbone and sends her sprawling into the grey stones where she lands, face down, precariously close to the nearest pile of flaming debris.

Dazed by the blow, she watches with detached interest as her staff clatters to the stone several feet away. Her staff blade snaps off with a muted ‘ _snick_ ’ and all she can think of is how much the damned thing will cost to replace.

Evelyn doesn’t see how she looks, collapsed on the grey stone floor in a spray of her own blood, but Cullen does.

Cullen does, and he yells, a broken, terrified noise that travels clearly across the Shrine of Dumat, even as the battle rages around them.

Startled by the panic in his voice, Evelyn realizes that she should be moving, trying to escape. That red templar isn’t dead, but even if he were, there are more. There are always more, she thinks ruefully as she lies on the floor, her shattered cheekbone warm against the heated stone.

Whether through divine intervention or poor observational skills, the red templar moves off, leaving her crumpled and bleeding body where it lies. With calm detachment, she watches the man sprint off towards the Iron Bull, his templar armor clanking. The noise is jarringly loud, and it suddenly occurs to her that her head hurts.

As if by magic, Solas is there. He crouches beside her, murmuring soothing words in an unruffled tone, his foreign magic curling through her body in an effort to heal her injuries. Evelyn nearly smiles, relieved for his presence, but stops when her shattered cheekbone begins to knit back together. 

It is not a pain-free process. Just the opposite, actually.

Her bone fragments slide back into place under her bruised skin and she momentarily blacks out from the blinding agony of it. Bones aren't supposed to _shift_ under your skin. Mercifully, the next thing she feels is the welcome, tart taste of elfroot being poured into her mouth. It isn't enough to clear her thoughts or heal the burning along her ribs, but it helps.

It isn’t until they pick her up – Cullen picks her up – and carries her from the fiery temple that she realizes how serious her situation actually is. It’s his voice that clues her in. He's talking quickly, his normally calm voice edged with suppressed panic. It takes her a moment to realize that her stoic commander is actually _frightened,_ but she’s too stunned to process the implications of that.

Through a fuzzy haze of pain, she focuses on his breastplate instead. It’s only when she stares at his chest for several long moments when she realizes that she has bled all over his fine clothing. It’s okay, her disoriented mind decides. His clothing is dark red for a reason.

It’s the last thought she has before she loses consciousness in his uncomfortable, gauntleted arms.

 

* * *

 

When she awakes, it’s dark, cool, and blissfully free of the smell of burning red lyrium. To her relief, she finds herself inhaling the woody smoke of a campfire instead.

Willing her eyes open, she realizes she’s back at camp, lying on her bedroll in a circle of firelight. Somehow, night has fallen since the last time she was conscious. The sounds of battle have long since faded and all she can hear now is the warm summer wind ruffling through the trees overhead and the merry crackling of the fire.

Confused by her new surroundings, she tries to sit up. Suddenly, Cullen is there, crouching on his heels beside her bedroll. He places a heavy, bare hand on her head and she can feel the cool touch of his bare fingers through her tangled tresses.

“Evelyn.” His fingers stroke her hair, “Lay still.”

She automatically obeys her commander, settling back onto the bedroll with a wince.

“What happened?” She attempts to ask, but her lips won’t form the words. She puts a shaky hand to her mouth, only to feel roughness of her split lip. _Ah, right_ , she thinks. _The boot to the face_.

“You were injured at the temple. We weren't sure how many red templars were still lurking around, so we brought you back to camp.” Cullen explains, his voice low and soothing. There’s a deep, calm quality to his words, and she blinks.

Maker’s breath. Something about the rich tone of his voice causes her skin to tingle. She turns her head, needing to hear more of his low, rumbling speech. He interprets her movement as another attempt to rise and suddenly, his hand is in her hair again, carding through the gritty mess.

“Evelyn. It’s okay. Lie still. Everyone is back in one piece.”

“Samson?” She struggles to ask, remembering the sole reason they traveled to the shrine. He shakes his head. Even in the firelight, she can see his lips settle into a thin line.

“We didn’t get Samson, but we have an idea of what he’s doing now.”

He sinks to the ground beside her, settling into a cross-legged position. There’s something endearingly child-like about him sitting that way and, despite her pain, Evelyn manages a weak smile.

“It’s cute.” She mutters hazily, referring to his position. Cullen tilts his head and then chooses to ignore her comment, possibly disregarding it as fever-induced ramblings. Perhaps it is.

“How do you feel?” He asks in that addictively deep voice.

He hasn’t stopped stroking her hair, and Evelyn is so damned grateful. It’s the only part of her body that feels _good_ , and she wants to tell him to keep going, but her mouth is too much of a bloody mess to waste on unnecessary words.

“I feel… unwell.” She mumbles instead. It’s true, although perhaps a bit of an understatement. Her head roars and her side throbs from her partially healed sword wound. To add insult to injury, her robes are covered in dried blood and dirt, and they stick to her body in several places. 

Even in the dim, flickering light of the campfire, she can see him frown at her short response, concern lingering in his warm eyes.

“You were caught off-guard by a red templar. He managed to do some serious damage to your side and your face.”

Evelyn self-consciously runs her fingertips over her face again, touching, testing for injuries. The skin is tender, and she almost doesn’t want to know what she looks like. Bruised, certainly. Maybe worse.

“Unfortunately, we ran low of healing potions after The Iron Bull was mobbed by several of the big ones all at once.” Cullen continues. “Solas has done what he can, but he’s exhausted. He held a barrier around you until Bull could fight off the rest, but it was a close thing. We have a little spindleweed paste left, but we’ll have to hunt for more elfroot for potions first thing tomorrow.”

Evelyn takes a deep breath, then winces. Maker’s breath, she hurts.

“Try not to move.” He says, halting his wonderful petting motions. “You're only partially healed. You’re still going to need stitches in your side.”

“Oh.” Evelyn breathes, pulling her hands away from her face to stare up at the sky. Perhaps she hit her head too hard, but the thought of stitches doesn’t bother her as much as it should.

“I’ve prepared what I need, but I’m afraid the lack of elfroot potion won’t make this easy.” He frowns, his brow creasing with concern. “You had some potion a few hours ago and some of the numbing properties should remain, but I’ll be truthful. It will hurt.”

She nods, grateful for his blunt words. At least she knows what to expect, unpleasant as it is.

Evelyn glances over and sees a small bucket of water, soap, a washcloth, bandages, and Cullen’s old Templar-issued first aid kit sitting on a blanket to her left.

“You know how to do this?” Evelyn asks, trying to keep the pain from her voice as her lips falter over the words.

“I do, yes. I’ve done it before, several times. I can’t promise perfectly straight stitches, but I will do my damnedest to keep them small and clean.” He pauses then, eyeing her clothing. “I’ll have to get you to push up your robe, though.”

Evelyn should feel embarrassed. Cullen certainly is; even in the firelight, she can see the color rising to his cheeks as he readies the needle.

She should feel embarrassed, but frankly, she has bigger things to worry about. Red templars, Corypheus, blight-tainted lyrium… Not being topless in front of her blond-haired commander. Surely not.

“Where is everyone?” She mumbles, suddenly conscious of the silence of the camp.

“Solas and Varric are setting some traps around the perimeter of the camp, and Bull is already in bed. He needs some time to recover as well.”

Evelyn nods. She’s grateful for the relative solitude, considering that she’s never handled pain particularly _well_. Pushing the thought away, she struggles into a seated position and begins to pull off her robe. She doesn’t get very far before her torn robe catches on her elbow and she winces as the fabric brushes against her ribs.

“Help?” She asks, her voice weak. She’s not used to feeling helpless, and the shame of it stings.

Cullen puts the needle aside and immediately moves to assist her out of the long robe, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“You don’t have to remove the whole thing.” He says quietly, tugging the fabric away from her elbow. “We can try just lifting it up.”

“It’s fine.” Evelyn mutters as she finally manages to pull it over her head. The garment is ripped and bloodied beyond repair, and all she wants to do is get out of the grimy thing. When she finally pulls herself free of it, she’s left sitting on her bedroll in nothing but an unadorned breastband, matching smallclothes, and a pair of thin stockings, all stained by her dried blood. She looks rough.

It figures, a sulky part of her mind mutters. She’s unclothed in a handsome man's presence, and it looks like a giant stomped on her.

“You’ll need light.” She says as she settles back down onto the bedroll. Closing her eyes, she concentrates on the right spell for this situation. She’s still dazed from blood loss, but she manages to cast a small illumination spell over her bedroll. It’s not much, but it’s just enough to illuminate the feminine curves of her body and the angry, bloody gash that runs along her ribs.

Cullen tries to hide his reaction, but subtlety has never been his strength. A flicker of dismay crosses his face before he manages to still his expression back into more neutral territory. She can see it in her face, though; the wound is a mess. She turns her face away, embarrassed. It’s hard not to interpret his dismay as disgust.

Unsurprisingly, it hurts when he begins to sew her back together. He makes a point to touch her carefully, even tenderly, but the stitches still _hurt._

To make matters worse, the numbing effect of the potion that she consumed several hours ago has begun to fade, letting her feel each stitch as it goes in.

It’s not a comfortable process.

With each needle puncture, with each tug of the suture, she winces, her eyes watering. She tries to hide her reaction from Cullen - this is man who has endured torture, for Maker’s sake – but she can’t conceal her pained whimpers.

She tries. Oh, she tries.

He’s watching her, after all, his eyes flicking up to her face every few moments, in between each of his methodically sewn stitches. Finally, she buries her face into her arm and can’t bite back the sharp gasp of pain as he gets to the deepest part of her injury, the area where the sword severed muscle and skin alike.

“It hurts.” She gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should be tougher than this…” She’s rambling now, pain loosening her tongue.

“Talk to me, Evelyn.” He interrupts her, his voice tight with worry. “It’ll help. Tell me about… this.” She feels his finger trace over a small scar on her shoulder and it distracts her just enough. Not much, but enough.

“I … got it on the Storm Coast.” She grits out. “I slipped on one of the basalt columns by the ocean. They’re not as climbable as they look. … They’re wet.” She finishes lamely.

“Why were you climbing them?” He asks, determined to keep her talking. The residual painkilling effects of the elfroot potion will wear off shortly, and then it will be almost unbearable. She knows he has to finish it now, or it will be worse later.

“Wine.”

Evelyn doesn’t need to look up to see how Cullen’s face clouds with confusion.

“Varric bet me I couldn’t get to a wine bottle we saw perched on one of the columns.”

Cullen snorts, his eyes still focused on his task. “I wonder how many people have scars from Varric’s inane bets.”

Evelyn presses her face harder into her arm as he tugs the thread.

“Oh, _fuck_ , Cullen!” She bursts out. He instantly pauses and she takes several slow, deep breaths, schooling her emotions. Ignoring his troubled eyes, she nods to him. He continues again, and she tries to focus on her words instead of the sharp drag of the needle through her skin.

“Talk with Sera.” She manages between pained breaths. “Ask her how she got the one on her ass.”

Cullen sniffs as he works. “I’d rather not. That might just be the last thing in the world I'd want to see.” He’s so prim about it that Evelyn wants to laugh. If only he weren’t in the process of sewing her back together, his hands crimson with her blood.

"What's... the first?" Evelyn pants, her curiosity piqued.

His eyes flick to her face and down again to the flare of her waist where the wound trails off. He says nothing for a long moment.

"Probably the same thing as everyone else." He finally says. "Corypheus dead, the blights gone." He frowns and leans close to place another stitch, making sure to dodge her eye contact. "You, unburdened by the mark."

Evelyn blinks. It's not the response she was expecting, but she's touched.

"Thank you." She places her arm above her head on the bedroll and stares up at the cloudy night sky. "I'd like that as well." 

He grunts an acknowledgement, his head bowed as he works.

"Tell you what." Evelyn says suddenly, her voice still shaky with pain. "When Corypheus is dead and the mark is presumably gone, I'll grab some bottles of ale and we can dodge whatever grand party that Josephine is sure to throw."

Cullen shoots a quick, thankful look in her direction.

"Maker, _yes_. I'd like that."

A few more tugs and mercifully, the pain decreases. When she looks over, she sees he has placed the needle back on the blanket beside the first aid kit. With bloodstained hands, he wrings a washcloth out in the clean water, then dabs her skin clean.

“We’re done with the stitches.” He remarks, his voice looser, less tense. “Just… hold still. I have a little spindleweed paste left; I’m going to put some on the stitches to keep your side from getting infected. It should help.”

His face is drawn yet focused, and he sets to work, slathering paste on her with clean hands, smoothing it over her damaged skin. She can feel the spindleweed tingling as its blissful healing properties kick in. It doesn’t heal like elfroot, per se, but it takes the inflammation down and blunts the sharp pain to a dull ache.

When her side is sufficiently slathered with the healing balm, he reaches over and dabs some more of the bitter smelling paste across her cheek, then down, onto her lips. His brown eyes dart to hers as his fingers touch the overheated skin of her mouth and they _linger,_ just for a moment. Before she can think, he’s pulling back his hand and screwing the lid closed, his expression almost guilty.

“Thank you.” She manages. And she is. Solas could have stitched her together, or Varric even, but she prefers Cullen’s hands on her. They touch so rarely, after all; she can almost count the number of times his skin has grazed her own. It's not a high number; just a few brief brushes of their hands over the War Table, or that single hug that left them both flustered and blushing. Nothing more. Until now.

Tamping down her inappropriate thoughts, she struggles into a sitting position and pointedly ignores Cullen’s disapproving frown. She’s feeling better, although her side still feels raw. The skin also feels tighter now, and the thought of her stitches ripping open hangs over her like a ghoulish threat.

Concerned about the same possibility, Cullen moves closer to steady her and she lets herself slump against his solid weight. He shifts again to give her more to lean against, and Evelyn finally notices that he has discarded his surcoat and rolled up his sleeves, baring his forearms. It’s a good look for him, she thinks muzzily, trying to focus on something other than the stitches in her side. She wonders if she’ll ever see his bare forearms again. Maker, she hopes so.

A blush colors her face and she lets her illumination spell wink out, hiding her guilty reaction. The darkness snaps back into place and suddenly, it’s just her pressed to his side with the sound of the fire crackling nearby.

“You scared me today.” Cullen mumbles then, low and serious.

 “I’m sorry.” She manages in a rough voice. “Normally, we’re not overwhelmed like that.”

He arches an eyebrow and meets her gaze.

“I do read the field reports.”

“Well…” She amends. “Not that often.”

Cullen makes a disbelieving noise and puts his arm behind her, ostensibly to steady her, then looks up to the darkened sky. Clouds have rolled in, obscuring the stars, and thunder has begun to rumble threateningly in the distance. Cullen takes a deep breath and she can feel his chest rise and fall against her back. It’s pleasant. If there’s a silver lining to getting kicked in the face by a red templar, she thinks, perhaps this is it.

“It’s probably going to rain shortly.” He says after a long, comfortable moment. “I should bandage you and get you inside a tent.”

Evelyn nods against his shoulder. More sleep sounds wonderful, and yet, the thought of moving sounds... unpleasant.

“You can have my tent tonight.” Cullen offers, and she can hear the sheepishness that has crept into his voice. “In all the chaos, we forgot to put yours up.”

Hope – inappropriate, impractical hope – flares to life in her chest at the thought of sharing a tent with him. It’s ridiculous; they’ve never been anything but professional around one another, and she’s in no shape to do anything but pass out from fatigue, but it doesn’t stop effervescent happiness from bubbling up.

“Where will you sleep, though?” She asks.

“I’ll put up your tent. I won’t be the first time I’ve had to put up a tent in the dark. Or in the rain.”

The bubbles of hope pop.

“Oh.” She says simply, and she can hear the disappointment in her own voice. Evidently, so can Cullen, because he shoots her a curious look, his head ever so slightly tilted to the side.

“So… ah… would you help me with the bandages?” Evelyn slides a stocking-clad foot to her side as if she plans on standing. “I don’t want to bleed on your bedding.”

“Of course.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering to get her upright, but she manages to climb haltingly to her feet. She stands unsteadily on the soft, pine needle-strewn ground, her body painted with the flicking orange glow of the fire.

Like the true professional he is, Cullen works methodically, bandaging her chest and waist with the rough-woven cloth, mumbling an apology as his arms encircle her waist. She does her best to ignore the way his breath tickles her ear as he moves close to grab the long strip of cloth around her back, but it’s difficult. And odd. Odd because they’ve just been through physical and mental hell and yet her body is gleefully preoccupied by the way his arms look _pretty_.

She rolls her eyes at the inappropriateness of her thoughts as he offers his arm for support. Grateful for the help, she takes it, and he leads her across the small patch of firelight, over to his small tent.

With slow, careful movements, she climbs into his tent and shuffles forward on the bedroll. There isn’t much room, but he follows, kneeling beside her head on the canvas floor.

It’s darker inside; the only light available is the muted green glow of her anchor, throbbing faintly with her own reassuring heartbeat. It’s an odd reminder of the power she holds.

Evelyn ignores the pulsing light and settles herself down on his bedroll with a sigh. Like all their bedrolls, it smells slightly of musty canvas and the horses they are frequently strapped to, but Cullen’s scent lingers too - a male scent that she can’t place. It sends a thrill through her as she settles onto her back and she has to fight the urge to turn and press her face to his pillow. She'd probably bloody it up anyway.

She looks up to the roof of his tent instead and she’s struck by the fact that she’s lying on his bedroll wearing nothing more than bandages and undergarments. The same thought apparently occurs to him, because he’s suddenly glancing away. Ever the gentleman, he grabs ahold of a blanket at the foot of his bedroll and pulls it up to provide her with some cover.

“I’m sorry, Evelyn.” He mutters as he settles the blanket loosely around her waist. She frowns at the tone in his voice, but he goes on. “It was my job to draw those red templars away, but I was too caught up in finding Samson. I… rushed things. I should have done a better job protecting you.”

Evelyn shakes her head, not even sure if he can see the gesture in the dim tent. She isn’t sure if his guilt is due to a misplaced Templar-mage … thing, or if it’s Cullen just being Cullen, but she doesn’t want to hear it. He has done nothing wrong.

“It’s not your fault. I walked in to that one.”

In the faint light, she can see him open his mouth to protest, so she interrupts him.

“Could you… pet my hair again?” She asks, derailing his next comment. “Just… for a moment? I know it's unprofessional of me to ask, but it feels good.”

She almost laughs at the expression he makes. He’s surprised, certainly. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he reaches down to resume the soothing petting motions, a crooked smile on his face.

“How are you doing?” She asks, closing her eyes. She should have asked about his welfare as soon as she awoke, but she was so caught up in her own troubles, she’s forgotten about his. It’s poor leadership, and she knows it.

“I’ve had better days.” He mutters, brushing a loose lock of her chestnut colored hair behind her ear. The disappointment in his voice is palpable, and it …hurts her.

 “A little progress is still progress.” She says, knowing that the optimistic words will be little solace to a man like Cullen. He had been so determined to come along, to see this to the end. She can only imagine how infuriated he must be. “We’ll get him, Cullen.”

He grunts and dismisses the platitude, just as she expected him to.

“How are _you_ feeling now?” He mutters, apparently eager to change the subject.

“Better. Warm.” She replies honestly. “The bandage is a little tight, though.”

Cullen’s hand stills in her hair.

“I apologize. I’ll fix it.”

Before she can reply, his hands are gone from her hair and he’s reaching down to loosen her bandages, fumbling in the darkness to find the end of the rough cloth. The act causes the back of his fingers to graze the top of her breast and her breath audibly hitches at the contact.

He freezes, his fingers still flush against her skin. He heard her. Maker, he heard.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” He’s looking down at her now, his eyes narrowed with concern and… something else?

“No.” She exhales a stuttering breath. “Not... hurt, no.”

She can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to decipher her words. Before she can question her own wisdom, she’s pressing her face to his thigh in wordless encouragement.

The heavy silence in the tent lingers, for one second, two seconds, three seconds… He doesn't respond and Evelyn pulls away, fear thudding hard in her chest. Maker, she had thought... maybe...

A long moment later, she can feel Cullen’s warm fingers tentatively brushing the skin of her chest, nowhere _near_ the bandages. She exhales against his black wool pants, her face flushing hard.

“Don’t…” She mutters through bruised lips, her head finally spinning with something other than pain. To her dismay, he pulls his hand away. In the darkness, she can just make out his guilt-stricken expression.

“…stop.” She finishes, ignoring the stinging feeling in her lips. “Cullen… if you want. Don’t stop.”

The words hang there in the darkness, and she swears she hears him swallow.

In the few seconds it takes for him to guide his hand back to her chest, she feels her stomach squirm with nervousness and joy. It’s the most exquisite sort of torture.

As silent as ever, Cullen lets his fingertips rest on her heated skin, just above the curve of her breast. His eyes are wide as he watches her for any sign of discomfort - pain or otherwise.

“Please, Cullen.” She murmurs.

Spurred on by her words, his hand skims lightly down her body, over a covered breast. There’s something glorious about the fact that he’s not –quite– touching her, and she feels her nipples harden under the fleeting contact.

Unable to sit up, she nuzzles his thigh in encouragement again. In the darkness, she hears him exhale a shaky, eager breath.

Before she can think to encourage him again, his fingertips boldly travel up to circle her sensitive rosy tip, still hidden under her breastband. The newfound confidence in which he touches her surprises her, but only for a second. He’s a commander of armies; boldness is a necessary trait.

As if he can read her mind, his fingers find his way under the cloth and Evelyn can’t stop the wanton mewl that pours from her lips. To her side, she’s dimly aware of Cullen adjusting his position, shifting slightly if his pants are suddenly too tight.

Maker, she wants to kiss him. She wants to climb onto his lap, push him down onto the bedroll, and kiss him until he’s breathless and mussed and muttering his endearingly mild curses.

She wants to, but she can’t. Her mouth is a mess of healing bruises, bitter spindleweed residue, and tender skin. The simple act of trying to lean towards him is accompanied by a sharp burst of pain. It’s an odd thing, to feel so good and so terrible at the same time.

"Maker, Evelyn..." He starts, his voice awed. "I've wanted..."

Suddenly, outside the tent, Evelyn suddenly hears the sound of Solas and Varric approaching the fire, speaking in low voices. She curses silently, knowing how Cullen will respond. True to form, Cullen’s hand halts.

“I should probably let you sleep.” Cullen murmurs, and his tone makes Evelyn smile in the darkness. He’s almost petulant.

He slides his hand out from under the cloth then, causing goosebumps to pebble in his wake.

“The other two will want to know how you are.”

“Do you have to go?” She asks quietly.

He exhales lowly, considering her words.

“It’s probably prudent. You need to rest.” His hand travels up to stroke her gritty, tangled hair, but Evelyn reaches up and intercepts it. Pulling his hand down to her bruised mouth, she presses a soft kiss to his palm. As she does, she catches the scent of soap and something faintly metallic – the scent of her blood from his sleeve, she realizes. It’s strangely, confusingly, comforting. His willingness to take care of her, even at her worst, is a balm for her heart.

Outside, Evelyn hears Varric mutter something to Solas again. At the sound, Cullen sighs regretfully and stands to leave.

“You should sleep, Evelyn.” He rumbles in that addictively rich voice. “I'll be right beside you. Call if you need anything at all.”

He moves towards the door and Evelyn props herself up on her elbows, wincing as she does so.

“Cullen?”

He pauses at the entrance to the tent, half crouched under the flap.

“When we get back to Skyhold, can you come to see me?” She takes a deep breath for courage, inhaling the alluring scent of his bedroll as she does so. “I’d like to talk.”

 For the first time that evening, Evelyn sees him smile.

“I... yes. I’d like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FallingT kindly requested to see what happens back at Skyhold, so here’s Evelyn and Cullen's eventual conversation. I should note that the rating has now changed from T to E. 
> 
> Also, I’m taking some artistic licence with Skyhold’s armory. I figure it has got to exist somewhere. Just like the bathrooms.

It takes the Inquisitor’s party a week to travel back to Skyhold. They push the horses hard, traveling from sunrise to sundown each day, pitching camp well after dusk has fallen each night. There’s good reason for their haste. With Maddox’s armor crafting tools in their hands, the Inquisition may finally hold the key to stopping Samson.

It’s excellent motivation, but the strenuous journey takes a toll on Evelyn. Despite Cullen’s best efforts, her side isn’t quite healed. The stitches pull and sting with each small movement, with each bump in the road. Combined with near-overwhelming fatigue, it’s everything she can do to stay in the saddle. By the time they pitch camp each evening, she all but flees to her tent, desperate for sleep.

Sleep, but also… more.

Laying in her chilly bedroll, she can’t help but think of Cullen and the way his hand skimmed under her bandages to find her fever-hot breast, or the way his breath caught in his throat. The wicked memories cause Evelyn to blush and bury her face into her pillow in a mix of embarrassment and joy. Several times during the trip, she has to stop herself from shucking off her blankets and stalking over to his tent to join him, exhaustion be damned.

It's so tempting. She _would_ go to see him, if only just to talk, but three things hold her back.

Solas, Varric, and Bull.

Three men with sharp minds and even sharper eyes.

By the second day on the road, Varric and Bull have somehow caught on that _something_ occurred in Cullen’s tent. Subtle jokes and well-timed winks follow, earning thems fierce blushes from an exasperated Evelyn. Only Solas is content to observe the awkward situation with a mild silence, a fact for which Evelyn is eternally grateful.

Cullen, for his part, continues to treat Evelyn with polite and professional deference, making no mention of what transpired. More than once, however, she catches him watching her over the campfire with affectionate eyes, his cheeks flushed from the warm glow of the flames. When she attempts a crooked smile, his answering grin tells her all she needs to know.

Even Cullen's beautifully enigmatic smiles, however, can't erase her constant fatigue or pinching discomfort. By the time the small party finally reaches the gates of Skyhold late on the seventh day, Evelyn’s relief is palpable.

As she nudges her courser across the drawbridge, she glances up to see Cullen’s tower looming to her right. Perhaps, once he settles in, she'll come to speak with him. The thought causes her heart to give a nervous flip.

Tomorrow, she tells herself.

Tomorrow, she will finally talk to Cullen in private.

* * *

 

The next morning, Evelyn makes her way down the steps of the Great Hall towards the armory, breathing a contented sigh. With her stitches newly removed, she’s able to breathe without any of the tight pain that plagued her on the voyage home. A dose of Vivienne’s miraculous royal elfroot potion has also helped to fade her scars, leaving Evelyn with only faint lines instead. Even the scar from the devastating sword wound has dulled, leaving nothing but a curved, white line running down her ribs in an elegant arc.

The healing comes not a moment too soon, given how much Evelyn has to do. There are heaps of letters to sign, excitable arcanists to meet, and rulers to placate.

First things first, though: she needs a new staff. Her old one lay in the remains of the Shrine of Dumat, buried deep under the jagged, charred rubble. Intent of addressing the problem, Evelyn crosses Skyhold’s courtyard to the armory which houses the Inquisition's most valuable weapons.

With a little grunt, Evelyn pushes the heavy door open and steps inside. She knows from experience that the staves are kept down in the armory’s basement, so she heads down the stone steps, her soft leather boots muting her gentle footfalls.

Pushing open the basement door, she enters the cluttered, cavernous room, only to realize that it isn’t empty. To her surprise, Cullen is there, talking with a stern, hawk-nosed woman in shiny templar armor.

Knight-Lieutenant Nelson of the Templar order, Evelyn thinks, recognizing her.

Evelyn watches as Cullen leans against a table with his arms crossed over his chest, his heel resting casually on the table leg as he speaks. Distracted with his conversation, he doesn’t look up. It isn’t until Evelyn weaves around a rack of broadswords and accidentally nudges a wooden table with her hip that both Cullen and Knight-Lieutenant Nelson look up, startled by the disruptive clattering noise.

Two sets of eyes land on Evelyn and she stills.

Cullen’s expression changes from solemn to surprised, while Knight-Lieutenant Nelson merely blinks.

“Inquisitor.” Cullen greets her kindly, his eyes crinkling with amusement. Stern as ever, Knight-Lieutenant Nelson simply nods a polite greeting.

Evelyn shoots them a small smile.

“Hello, Commander. Knight-Lieutenant. Don’t mind me.” She remarks, hoping to sound calmly professional, like she didn’t just walk into a table littered with swords.

Leaving them to their conversation, Evelyn tamps down her mild embarrassment and walks through the maze of wooden racks and tables to the far wall where the staves are stored. They've amassed a sizable collection by now; one that could put her old circle to shame.

She stops by the rack nearest the wall and gazes over the eclectic collection, looking for something suitable.

Trying hard to ignore Cullen’s conversation behind her, she appraises the first rack and immediately rules out any ironbark staves. True to its name, ironbark is very heavy. An ironbark staff might be a fine tool for a circle mage, but not for someone who’ll have to carry it all over Thedas and back.

Moving down, she selects a honey-coloured maple staff off the rack instead, gripping it with both hands. It’s beautiful, certainly, with a deep blue crescent rune that glows with a faint, icy light. She runs an appreciative hand over the grain and focuses her will through the rune, testing it.

To her surprise, it sputters hard, its magic sparking with an angry crackle. Huffing exasperatedly, Evelyn places it back on the rack, trying to ignore the alert looks that Cullen and the Knight-Lieutenant shoot her way.

Templar training sticks hard, she thinks, forcing herself to ignore her own reddened cheeks.

She moves down the rack again, bypassing a black-stained staff carved in a recent Tevinter style. Even without touching it, she can _feel_ that it’s wrong for her.

Instead, her eyes fall upon the pale birch staff beside it, wild and twisted at the end. It’s simple, nothing more than a branch stripped of bark, but it _sings_ to her. Evelyn hefts it from the rack for a closer look. Just from the touch she can tell that it’s not as powerful as her last staff, but it doesn’t feel _off_. It feels ever so faintly warm, as if she’d just passed her hand through a sunbeam.

Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she grips it with both hands and focuses her magic through it, testing it as she did with the first. To her relief, it doesn’t sputter, spark, or even glow. It almost _hums_ \- a pleasant surprise.

She’s still focusing on the stave’s soothing aura when she hears footsteps behind her. Dampening the mellow magic, she turns to see Cullen approaching her as the Knight-Lieutenant retreats back up the stairs, their conversation now complete.

Cullen stops behind her and leans comfortably against the nearest table, adopting his casual position from before.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your staff.” He states easily, crossing his arms as he speaks. Evelyn’s heart skips as she takes in his relaxed, unbearably confident state. “By the time I thought to retrieve it, we were already back at camp.” His lips settle in a thin line and she knows he’s still kicking himself for forgetting it.

Evelyn lifts one shoulder in a half shrug.

“Thank you, although if that’s the only thing we lost, I consider us lucky.”

Cullen tilts his head, as if conceding her point. 

“Besides.” She continues, shifting the staff to her left hand. “The flames had probably destroyed my staff long before we even stepped foot off the grounds.” She sets the birch staff back on the shelf and looks at him, crossing her own arms across her full breasts.

“Ultimately, it’s not a problem. We’ve no shortage of decent staves here.”

“True.” He agrees, passing his gaze absently over the collection. “Speaking of Dumat, I was wondering how you’re faring after your injury lately.” His eyes dart down to Evelyn’s lips as he speaks. She understands why. Only a week ago, her mouth was a bloody mess, her lip split open and her cheekbone shattered after the red templar’s sabaton connected with her face.

Evelyn smiles self-consciously, keenly aware of his eyes on her mouth.

“I’m well, thank you. I just came back from seeing Vivienne. She stirred up some concoction with royal elfroot that helped the fade the scars.” She tapped her top lip and smiled broadly, genuinely this time. “You can’t even see the one on my lip now.”

Cullen shifts his weight, shooting her a roguish smile. “I guess we don’t match anymore.”

Evelyn can feel her eyebrows raise at Cullen’s… flirting?

 _Oh, Maker._ Cullen Stanton Rutherford is _flirting._

Her temperature spikes.

“Shame, really.” She grins, allowing him to take her response however he likes. “The scars on my ribs are a different story, though; Vivienne says I’ll always have those. It would have been different if we had elfroot right away, but what’s done is done.”

Cullen's smile disappears and she knows she’s said the wrong thing. 

_Oh no._

“Oh, hey.” She says, placing a hand on his vambrace. “It’s fine. Beyond fine. Vivienne even said you did a fantastic job on the stitches.”

Cullen’s pensive look fades a notch.

“Ah. That’s… a relief to hear.”

Evelyn nodded. “Mmhmm. The scar is very thin and straight. She thought you had a steady hand, given the circumstances.” She absently touches her tongue to her top lip where a tiny scar used to mar her skin. “…Did you… ah… want to see your handiwork?” She asks, gesturing to her side.

She doesn’t know why she asks. The question is brazen and rather unprofessional, but it rushes out anyway. His eyes widen at the offer.

Cullen’s eyes flick to the door, then back to her, his doubt written all over his face.

“I… is that… a good idea?”

He wants to say yes. She can see it in his face, the way his eyes are suddenly _curious_. He wants to say yes, but he _can’t_. He’s Cullen, after all, and she’s sure it would be Wildly Inappropriate in his mind.

She smiles in an effort to play down her offer, to convince herself that it’s just a scar she’s showing him. She’d do the same with Sera, or Varric, if either asked.

“It’s fine.” She says, more to reassure herself than him. “Here.” She makes a subtle flicking motion with her hand and, across the room, the heavy basement door thuds shut. She intends for the gesture to be reassuring, but instead, the sound echoes off the stones of the room ominously.

Subtly flustered now, Cullen shifts his weight as she puts her hands to the buttons of her shirt. She’s fully aware of how this situation looks. It’s clear that Cullen notices as well; his eyes are somehow even wider, his back becoming almost imperceptively stiff as he leans against the table.

“Evelyn…” He begins to say, and then trails off as she reaches the third button. She meets his eye and he says nothing, letting her continue.

Her deft fingers undo the fourth button, then slide down to the next, and the next, until her shirt is hanging open, revealing a sliver of exposed skin and a hint of a plain, black breastband.

She knows he’s seen it all before, back when he stitched her wound closed, but it’s different this time. There’s no pain or fear lingering between them now; just a heavy feeling of expectation and uncertainty. Nervousness blooms in her chest as her hands undo the last button, trembling slightly due to the intensity of the moment.

Willing her hands to be steady, she flicks her eyes to his and pulls her shirt open on one side. The action reveals her flared waist, now permanently marred from the red templar’s blade.

“Here.” She says simply, and turns, offering him a view of her newly scarred skin. “It’s a little numb in places, but other than that, it’s fine.” She looks down and prods the faint line on her ribs, just to prove her point. “I’m sure most of the soldiers have worse.”

Cullen slowly shakes his head as he gazes at the long scar, his brow furrowing.

“You’re downplaying it, Evelyn. That was a grave injury.” He looks back up at her, his brown eyes clouded and distant. “Maker… the way you fell.” His hand rasps over his stubbled cheek and she can tell he’s reliving the scene in his head. “By the time I got to you, you had lost so much blood. You lost consciousness _so_ quickly. If Solas hadn’t have been right there, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Silence lingers for a moment before Cullen pulls off his gloves and sets them on the table behind him. With bare hands, he reaches out to touch her scar, too distracted to dwell on the inappropriateness of it.

“It was a near miss.” He trails his finger along the silvery-white line, his expression troubled. “I’ve never been that scared for you, and that includes Haven.”

Evelyn blinks her grey eyes, surprised at the revelation. She had guessed that the wound had been bad, but Cullen seems so shaken by the memory of it, she knows it was a close thing.

“I owe you my thanks.” She says softly, then makes a face, unsatisfied with the words as soon they’re spoken. “I owe you for getting me out of Dumat, for stitching me back together, for lending me your tent - for all of it.”

At the mention of his tent, his eyes dart to hers and then _down._ Suddenly, the air is _thicker_ , somehow, making it a little harder to breathe. She hasn’t forgotten what happened in the tent.

Neither, it seems, has he. 

His hand lingers on her side, his fingers still resting on her scar. It could be a simple gesture of comfort or something more, but it’s a tease; a slow taunt that is killing her by inches. She doesn’t even know if he’s aware of how it’s affecting her, but he is. There’s a wonderful tugging feeling in her stomach now, and she can feel her cheeks heat as she stands before him, her shirt wide open and her breasts barely obscured by her breastband.

“It was my pleasure.” He rumbles. The words are inappropriate, given the topic, but it’s obvious by the way his lips part and his fingers graze her side that he’s not talking about her injury anymore.

It’s clear that he still wants her, scars and all.

Entranced, Evelyn reaches behind her back and fumbles with her breastband. Her experienced fingers manage to snap the clasp open before Cullen even understands what’s happening. With a gentle tug, she pulls the thin strip of black fabric out from under her shirt.

Cullen’s brown eyes widen with surprise when he realizes what she’s done. He can’t see much; her shirt still covers most of her, but she’s busty, and her snug shirt doesn’t hide all her curves. Shock causes his eyebrows to lift.

With quiet courage, Evelyn lets the black undergarment fall to the stone floor where it lands with a soft thump. It’s a plain offer, and she isn’t sure he’ll take it until his hand suddenly grips her side, his full palm settling on the smooth skin of her waist.

Her eyes meet his and she swallows. Oh, he’s _more_ than interested.

Evelyn lets out a grateful, nervous breath, relieved at his response. She might not have Cassandra’s beautiful cheekbones, or Vivienne’s dangerous grace, but Maker, she has _curves_ , and they’re his if he wants them.

“Evelyn…” His breath gusts out, his voice strained.

Apparently, he does.

Cullen takes a step closer, then stops and glances meaningfully at heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs.

“You’re certain it’s locked?” He asks in a hushed tone, inclining his head at the door. Evelyn feels an odd sense of power when his voice actually _wavers_.

“I am.” She replies, pleased at how her own voice barely shakes.

He grunts a note of satisfaction and moves both hands to her hips, his boldness returning when she needs it most. The action causes her shirt to slide open and she feels her nipples harden as they’re abruptly exposed the cool air of the windowless room. Before she can shiver, his warm palms are moving up, cupping her heavy breasts.

He says nothing as he touches her, but she can see by the way he looks at them that he's in awe. Evelyn makes a soft sound of pleasure and his eyes dart up to hers.

“Is this alright?” He asks, grazing his thumbs over her nipples. His voice sounds rough. Overwhelmed, almost. It’s all Evelyn can do to nod in agreement.

He traces his thumb around the pale pink circle of her nipple and she makes a startled noise – a strangled mewl of satisfaction. It’s an odd sound to hear in an armory, of all places, and it makes the corner of his mouth twitch up in a sweet, almost boyish, smile. With his own low noise of contentment, he abandons her breasts and pulls her body close, his arms sliding around her unclothed waist. Evelyn almost yelps when the cool metal of his vambraces press against her bare skin of her lower back, but his breath is warm against her neck and instead of being jarring, it’s _perfect._

“I wanted to come see you the night after your injury.” He murmurs against her skin. “I was going to, but then Varric kept shooting me these damned pointed looks.”

Evelyn can feel the frustration in his voice; he’s almost growling out his words.

“He wanted to know how I liked ‘playing healer’ in your tent.”

She blushes, remembering.

“Did you?” She asks, her face heating at the memory of his hands caressing her under the bandages.

“Once I knew you’d be okay?" This time when he growls out a response, it’s not anger coloring his voice. "...Very much.”

He kisses her then, gently at first. His lips find hers and Evelyn is grateful for their soft, enthusiastic warmth. Eager for his touch, she meets him move from move, her hands twining in the fur around his neck as she leans in. He hums in appreciation, only to pull back a moment later, gently breaking their kiss.

  
“Evelyn…” He rumbles against her lips, unwilling to pull back completely. The need in his voice startles her. “Touch me.”

 _Oh, Maker._

She’s more than happy to oblige.

Her fingers slide down his chest, over the rivets and hard lines of his armor, but there’s nothing to grasp, nowhere she can touch. It’s frustrating, especially when she can imagine what that beautiful armor hides.

Forgoing his chest, she lifts up the bottom of his shirt and slips her hands under it, finding his bare hips buried in all the layers of cloth. He’s warm, almost hot, and she grips his hips under her palms. At her touch, he exhales a quiet breath by her ear, more a moan than a sigh.

Her mind hums happily to hear him so aroused.

Aching to hear the sound again, she lets her hands trail down his hips, tracing along the V of muscle she finds there. He gasps at the feeling, his eyes sliding shut as her fingers ghost against his hot skin and brush over the golden hair at the base of his cock.

“Evelyn…” He mutters in encouragement, nuzzling the soft skin of her throat.

Ignoring his unspoken plea, she gently pulls her hands free, causing Cullen to make a low note of dismay. His pained expression fades when her fingers begin unlacing his pants instead, promising even greater rewards. He utters a quiet groan as Evelyn fumbles with the laces, drunk with the knowledge of what’s to come.

With one last tug, Evelyn watches as Cullen’s laces slide open and his pants slip down his toned hips. He’s still covered by the maroon cloth of his tunic and surcoat, but his appreciation is so much more obvious now.

Biting her lip at the sight, Evelyn pushes his pants fully down his hips, over his muscular thighs. Pushing aside several folds of maroon cloth, she slides her hand under the fabric and lets her fingers slip over his hard length, tracing the heavy weight of him.

“Sweet _Maker_ …” He groans, his eyes slipping shut, if only for a moment.

Evelyn makes a point to be gentle at first, her fingers skating, skimming, not quite touching. She knows it’s not enough, and Cullen grips her arm gently and pulls her closer, pressing his forehead to hers in a silent request – a plea for still more.  He’s breathing shallow breaths, and exhilaration trills through her as she watches her stoic commander’s careful control waver.

Eager to break his self-restraint completely, she wraps her fingers around him and grips him fully, causing him to breathe a startled grunt. To her delight, he’s rock hard and slick under her hand, making it easy for her hand to slide down his length. The moment she does, he groans again, his breath ghosting raggedly along her throat.

She pleasures him slowly then, her hand slipping slickly around him with unhurried pumps, trying to draw out the moment.

By the way he grips her, though, she can tell he wants more. It’s obvious by the way he sways a little unsteadily on his feet, his hips grinding almost imperceptively into her hand. He huffs a hot breath against her neck and Evelyn decides to be merciful.

With one last pump, she sinks to her knees and looks up at him, her grey eyes wide and beseeching. Her mouth is mere inches from him, but despite that, it takes his stunned mind a moment to realize what she’s wordlessly requesting.

When his dazed mind finally puts the pieces together, his shoulders slump and he shoots a grateful look up to the ceiling. She knows he’s silently thanking the Maker, and the thought makes her stifle a laugh even as she leans forward to take him in his mouth. The moment she does - the moment his hard cock passes between her soft lips - he gasps and places a hand on the nearby table, steadying himself.

“Evelyn…” He breathes out, watching in astonishment.

Evelyn tamps down a smile and sets to work. He’s large and faintly salty on her tongue and she hums happily at the taste, enjoying the feeling of his captivated gaze on her.

She drags the flat of her tongue over him then, testing him, listening carefully for his telltale gasps and noises of pleasure. Encouraged by a particularly needy noise, she takes him deeper and he immediately moans. She shivers, excitement racing through her as she redoubles her efforts, intent on leaving him a satisfied, gasping mess.

Before she can get much further, however, his boots shuffle on the stone and he moves back a tiny step. Startled, she looks up, stilling her mouth.

“Not… like this…” Cullen chokes out, putting his hand to her cheek, careful despite the strain in his voice. With a final gentle swipe of her tongue, she pulls back and looks up, uncertain as to his meaning. She can see him appraising her rough and reddened lips with astonished satisfaction, his desire written all over his face.

Before she can ask what he’d like, he’s kneeling down, easing her back onto the cold stone floor, his strong hands gentle but firm.

He wants… _oh._

The next thing Evelyn knows, she’s lying on the stone and he’s pressed against her, her world reducing down to nothing but his heavy weight, rough stubble, and hot skin. It’s not _comfortable_ , per se, but despite that, she can’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.

Before she can comment, his hands are tugging off her boots, stripping her in a way that leaves no doubt in her mind about what they’re about to do here in the armory.

Evelyn’s mind hazes over with desire, surprised at his boldness. It’s a public place, and his willingness to do this _here_ , of all places, speaks to just how far gone he is.

With her boots discarded, he strips off his own breastplate, followed by her pants and smallclothes. Abruptly, she’s naked from the waist down, her shirt hanging open in a blatant invitation. He doesn’t even take a moment to admire his work before he’s on her again, his warm thighs against hers, his slick cock pressed hard between her legs. He makes a startled noise when he feels how ready she is, despite the lack of attention she’s received.

“Is this alright?” He breathes between adoring kisses, seeking her permission.

She cups his face and places a short, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“ _Please_.” She begs.

He makes a low noise of satisfaction and shifts against her, one strong arm supporting himself as his other hand slides down to line himself up with her. She makes an encouraging noise, nothing even resembling his name, and then he’s pressing into her, gradually filling her in a way that makes her tremble against the cold, stone floor.

_Sweet Maker._

Feeling her shiver, he lays a sweet kiss on her lips before he leans down to rest his forearms on either side of her head, his eyes hazy with lust. It’s obvious that he’s as stunned as she is.

Unable to hold still for long, he thrusts into her slowly, consciously giving her time to adjust. She sighs in relief; all she can feel is Cullen above her and the stone underneath her, their shaky breaths filling the silence in between.

Wanting still more, she hooks one bare leg over his thigh and nuzzles the heated skin of his throat.

“Cullen,” she murmurs, urging him on.

Spurred on by her tone, he thrusts down onto her and she winces despite the euphoria of the moment. The stone underneath her is hard and unforgiving, scraping against her with each perfect movement. It’s an odd mix of pain and pleasure, but she presses up, not willing to trade the sensation of _him_ for anything in the world.

He continues to thrust into her, his jaw clenched tight, and she can see he’s lost to the sensation. She feels it too, although her pleasure is tempered with a mild stinging sensation on her lower back. A stone floor really is a terrible place for this. She knows she could tell him to move, maybe even encourage him to bend her over one of the tables instead, but she can’t bear the thought of halting this. Not even for a moment.

She ignores the stinging pain and desperately arches up, trying to catch his gaze as she does so. _She’s so close._ She’s so close, and she knows from the way that his thrusts intensify that he is too. He lets out a ragged breath and tears his eyes away from her to look down, only to groan at the sight of their bodies joining.

“Evelyn!...” He gasps. She can tell by his tone that he’s trying to warn her.

“Don’t you dare,” she pleads, half jokingly, half seriously.

He wordlessly shakes his head and his breath comes out in a rough gasp. She can see it – he won’t last much longer. She opens his mouth to encourage him, but before he can even speak one strangled word, he drops his head against her neck.

“ _Fuck_!” He gasps hard.

With an abrupt motion, he pulls out and grips himself, pumping himself with an experienced hand. His eyes squeeze shut and he heaves a breath as comes, coating her thighs in his warm spend while he gasps a noise of pure bliss.

He’s a beautiful mess, and Evelyn’s stomach flips as she watches, feeling her own body respond to the powerfully erotic sight. Just as his orgasm fades, her deft fingers guide her to her own climax, causing her voice to ring off the stones. Pleasure hits her hard and she feels a blush run up her body, her lips almost tingling from the sheer power of it all.

When the last jolt of pleasure fades away, she slumps back onto the stone, letting her hands fall uselessly to either side of her head.

Silence follows, broken only by their astonished panting.

One moment passes, then another. Finally, she opens her eyes to see him sitting back on his heels between her legs, breathing hard, his eyes hazy with lust and ruffled contentment. He’s completely disheveled, his pants still around his ankles and her clothing strewn around him on the cold stone, but he’s _happy_.

Completely and genuinely happy.

Evelyn sighs in joy at the sight of her stoic commander looking so completely and utterly _ravaged._ Lying on the stone, she realizes that her own appearance may not be much better. With her mind still reeling, she takes stock of her own appearance and realizes that her chestnut braid has partially unraveled. In addition to her hair being a complete mess, her shirt lays open and her pants sit in a small heap five feet away, thrown haphazardly under a nearby table of quivers.

She fumbles for a nearby sock and wipes her hand clean before pushing herself up.

The moment she does, she breathes in sharply when she realizes that the unforgiving stone floor has done some damage to her back. She reaches around to feel it, just above her hips. She’s sore, her back red and raw from Cullen’s vigorous enthusiasm.

Curious now, she sits up straight and turns to take a look, only to realize that she can’t see the spot. The action only catches Cullen’s attention though, and he furrows his brow in confusion. Without a word, he leans over and peeks behind her, only to inhale at the sight of her scraped up skin.

“ _Maker_ , Evelyn, I’m sorry!” His hands gently touch her side, careful to avoid the sore spot. “I didn’t think… Maker.” He curses again. He’s contrite, his brow furrowed in genuine distress. “I… I have some elfroot potion above my office.”

Evelyn fights back a smile, because as sincerely upset as he is, he’s still half-naked and scruffy-looking, his hair a tousled mess.

“You mean your loft?” She asks, reaching for her breastband, dismissing the mild injury with her casual tone. “May I see it?”

She tugs the breastband over her head and catches him staring at her as she does so, his eyes locked on the sway of her full breasts as she lifts her arms.

Cullen, she notes with satisfaction, is a _breast man_. The thought makes her hum with delight.

“Ah... of course. I’d be happy to show you.” He climbs to his feet and distractedly tugs his pants up, trying to lace them with fumbling fingers. Even without speaking, she can see that he’s still troubled by her new injury, his face a mask of guilt.

“Maker, Evelyn,” he speaks up after a few long seconds. “I’m sorry. I did this all wrong…”

 “Cullen.” She murmurs, pausing in the act of reaching for her pants. She catches his eye and gives him an intense look. “I would do that a _hundred_ times over.”

His hands falter as he finishes lacing up his pants.

“Oh.” He breathes. The darkness in his expression fades, only to be replaced with bright relief. “…Can we?”

Evelyn is amused to hear that his deep voice is full of a rumbling enthusiasm, once which makes her insides squirm with glee.

“Do that a hundred times over?” She repeats, then laughs and climbs to her feet, thrilled at the promise of more. “Yes, but maybe in your bed instead?”

“Maker, _yes_.” He replies, clearly pleased at the prospect. He extends his hand to her and when she grips it, he tugs her firmly into his arms. “No tents, or bedrolls, or stone floors.” He frowns. “And no more elfroot.”

Evelyn presses herself against his warm chest, her mind buzzing happily at the thought.

“Mmm.” She agrees with dazed contentment. “Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not pictured: An incredibly giddy and turned-on Cullen putting up a tent in the dark, internally berating himself for copping a feel. 
> 
> Also, not pictured: Evelyn with her fingers pressed to her face, trying not to grin because it hurts too much.


End file.
